Last English Class

My Pa was a brilliant, tortured man. Like some whose mind has more thoughts than hearers. I heard him for years. Gifted an’ sane, chased by words and fears.

He helped learn me to write right. Better anyway. My favorite praise from him was I have a way with words. I was convinced their key from earlies’ sage. Truth is out Here. Hidden or open, money’s python or mage.

Questions from pain, the unfairness and rage. I heard all and weighed helpless. Some can heal but never quite close wounds. I thought him most my story, once upon a climb. But I was rebirthing. Lost count of times.

When he stopped talking, I stopped walking. Now we’re above it all. No more pain. No more sorrow. No more lessons on blame. Heaven is real. Why are you all waiting?

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